


On the First Day of Band Camp

by Moonlark



Category: 18th & 19th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF
Genre: Alex being smol and bi and ready to fight everything, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Marching Band, Band camp, Look at all the band nerds, Multi, Polyamory, Soooo many Johns, TJ is the Original American Fuckboy TM, The Gay Trio, Thomas Jefferson and his son Meriwether, a small dose of pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-20
Updated: 2015-11-20
Packaged: 2018-04-28 17:34:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5099579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonlark/pseuds/Moonlark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being an account of five days in the life of one Alexander Hamilton, piccolo in the Liberty High School Eagles Marching Band.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the First Day of Band Camp

**Author's Note:**

> All the band kids are (were) historical figures. The adults (band instructor, drum line instructor, etc.) are OCs. The college where this band camp happens is based on California University of Pennsylvania, where my band camp memories were made.
> 
> The Liberty Eagles Marching Band is loosely based on the organization of my old high school's unorthodox marching band, and the Crown Academy Lions Marching Band is loosely based on our rivals.
> 
> Also, this was supposed to be only founding fathers fic and then Meri started tugging on my sleeve and gave me the begging puppy eyes and I just couldn't deny him. He's not in high school yet, just a really young 8th grader who feels so small among all these high schoolers.

It is 7:00 on a Monday morning in the final week of July, and Alex is sitting on a crumbling section of curb outside Liberty High School. He is wedged between a tattered, overstuffed backpack and an equally ragged sleeping bag on one side and a distractingly attractive and sleepy John Laurens on the other, holding a tiny black piccolo case and wondering when he had become such a nerd.

"When did we become such nerds?" he asks, turning to John, who is resting his head on a precarious tower of duffel bag, pillow, and saxophone case.

"Always have been," is the other boy's tired response. "No 'become' about it." He sounds like he would be asleep in an instant were it not for the fear of his tower collapsing.

"Are you implying that nerdery is genetic? Your own family disproves that hypothesis, John. Your mother is too cool to be a nerd."

"And my father too lame and stuffy. Also, there's no need to disprove hypotheses--this isn't science class or debate. This is sitting on a curb outside Liberty half an hour early because my stuffy, lame father had a plane to catch and I'm not leaving my 'stang sitting on this street for a week. That thirty minutes early is thirty minutes I could have been sleeping." The last phrase is delivered in highly pointed tones.

Alex snorts. "Just remember that at band camp you have to be in block each morning by this time."

John grunts something back that sounds vaguely displeased, but it's muffled by the pile of things on his lap and the effects of sleepiness. Alex grins and leans against him, staring absentmindedly at the golden display of sunlight on the houses across the street. It's a very comfortable morning, compared with the swampy heat of the week before. There's a slight breeze, and the sun hasn't gotten up high enough yet to heat the pavement to the boiling point. There's a bit of shade from the stunted parking strip trees, and he can burrow into John's side without any worry about overheating.

Of course, band camp is up on a small campus in the mountains, so the mornings will have fog and a nip and a real excuse for side-burrowing and hugs and other impulsive behaviors.

The sound of an engine nearing jerks Alex from his thoughts, and then Mr. Brian, the band instructor, is there, looking down at them with his standard resting deadpan.

"Buses'll be here soon," he says. "You two are early." There's an unspoken question in his words.

Alex grins cheekily. "Aren't we always?" Mr. Brian raises a single eyebrow, and Alex hurries to add, "But yeah, our ride got us here with plenty of time."

John once again mumbles something inaudible, and Mr. Brian shakes his head and wanders off in the direction of the band room.

It takes about a minute for Alex to get bored and pull his phone out. Beside him, John's breathing has changed to a gentle rhythm, a simple downbeat followed by a soft exhalation. It's a familiar sound, entwined with safety and home, and Alex finds himself curling up against his boyfriend even more. He shifts slightly and brings his phone up to eye level so he can see the screen. A phone is not an ideal tool for typing actual literature, but he's not going to be near a computer for five long days, and there's no way he could ever go that long without writing.

A car door slams on the road downhill from them, and Alex is once again startled, head flying up as a new voice calls out in a faint French accent.

"Eh? Cuddling! And you didn't invite me?!"

Alex grins and shouts back, "Sorry, we just don't like you!" as a blond teenage boy sprints over the lower parking lot and up the hill toward them, trumpet case in one hand, suitcase in the other. Gilbert skids to a halt beside them and sits on the curb with such speed that it almost like he's been thrown down. He pulls them both into the biggest hug he can manage with only two arms, and Alex, after a split second hesitation due to the public nature of their location, turns and kisses him.

 _That_ gets John to wake up, "What, guys," he hisses, "what are you--we're in the middle of the street, people could be watching, what about the neighbors--"

"Fuck the neighbors if they don't like it, "Alex says easily. If they don't like it, they're either prudish or homophobic or just plain hate poly people.

"They voluntarily live next to a high school," Gilbert points out. "They've probably seen worse. Hell, I've only been here for a year and I've seen worse. I mean, I found a condom out here once."

"Yeah, I found one in the band hallway once. Like, who would want to fuck at school?" John replies.

Alex shrugs. "When I was in the musical last year, I walked in on a couple doing it backstage once. Like, way back in the props closet. I don't even know how they got in there."

"Were any of the props involved?" John grins, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh god no, why, why would you ask me that," Alex says, properly horrified; Gilbert looks like the thought has made him vaguely sick. "Take that back, please, I don't want it in my head, I, we _used_ those props--"

He's interrupted by the groaning of old engines as a pair of faded yellow school buses pull up to the curb and sigh like tired mules. The drivers give them quick instructions that basically amount to luggage on the back bus, people on the front. They quickly put their stuff in the appropriate seats, and then get back off the luggage bus to discover that in those two minutes, most of drum line has arrived.

"Oh God, why must you try me so?" Alex whispers miserably as he spots TJ, the drum line captain, dressed like a combination between the king of fuckboys and a hipster worthy of Portland's Division St, and carrying a snare in its case out toward the luggage bus. TJ is about the only person in band Alex actively hates.  His only redeeming quality is that he's really, really good at drumming--everything else is pure shit.

"Have strength," a new voice says from behind, right by his ear. "At least we don't have to have sectionals with Sir Douchebag Supreme."

Alex jumps about fifteen feet in the air and then laughs crazily. Gilbert nearly chokes on his own spit. John, to his credit, manages to be content with a snicker, an eye roll, and a dry "Nice of you to join us, Hercules."

Hercules swings his electric bass down from his shoulder and grins. "It's only 7:25, I'm not late," he replies, wide awake.

"You're a traitor," John proclaims. "I mean, I can understand these two being alive, awake, alert, and enthusiastic this morning--Gilbert did just get back from France and Alex has no idea what a sleep schedule even is--but you? I was counting on you. You have let me down."

"You can sleep on the bus," Hercules says. "You have two boyfriends, I'm sure one of them'll make a fine pillow."

"Not me," Gilbert says swiftly, and Alex pretends to groan.

"Oh God, why must you try me so?" he repeats, except this time there's a lot less displeasure in the way he says it. He doesn't mind being a John-pillow. Besides, he's slept on John so many times before that it's really only fair.

His attention is diverted by a glimpse of an unfamiliar person in the corner of his eye. Just outside the milling circle of drum line depositing their drums on the bus, a strange boy stands, hunching his shoulders and clutching the handle of a clarinet case like it's all that's keeping him here. He looks entirely too young and tiny to be in marching band (like, not even Jemmy's size), even though his hair is already a strange shade of almost-gray-blond.

"Hey, who's that?" Alex asks, pointing in the kid's direction. The question is addressed to anyone, but he's noticed Aaron approaching and figures Aaron's on drum line, the strange kid's hanging around drum line, maybe Aaron can tell him something.

Aaron blinks at the question and then looks where Alex is pointing. "Oh, him," he says, "uh, he's an 8th grader. Feeder pattern says he can come join us."

"Why would he want to?" Gilbert asks. Aaron rubs an elbow, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

"Well, he's TJ's next door neighbor/unofficially adopted little brother/protégé/surrogate son, so..."

"What the fuck," Hercules says, wrinkling his nose.

"What the fuck?" Alex echoes. He'd thought TJ was an ass, but this was plain ass weird.

"That is very strange indeed," Gilbert adds.

Aaron frowns. "You two don't get to call that weird, you're practically George's surrogate sons also--"

"Yeah, but we don't have the next door neighbor/little brother thing."

They all pause to glance back at the boy, who is now talking animatedly with TJ as the vast majority of drum line heads to the people bus.

"Good Lord, someone please rescue that poor little kid," John mutters.

"Hey, hey, I know you guys don't like TJ very much, but he is drum line captain, you're gonna have to try to get along a little. And Meri, that's the kid, he's young, don't go hating on him, please. He's not even a teenager yet."

"Awwww," Alex coos. "Smol bby 8th grade clarinet! Too cute!"

"Too innocent," Hercules grins.

"Too pure," John adds.

"Must be protected at all costs," Gilbert sums up.

Aaron gives them all a strange look, but especially Alex. "I will never understand how you manage to attract the strangest friends," he says, backing away toward the buses.

"Hey, you're ambiguously one of those friends!" Alex yells after him. "What does that say about you?"

But Aaron has already vanished into the bus.

 

***

 

By 7:45 almost all of the band is there, including the Amazon chariot that is the Schuyler family minivan (cleverly named Vinnie Man). The comedy of Angelica and Peggy attempting to stow their guard flags on a school bus with a low ceiling and narrow aisles somehow never grows old, especially since Alex gets to enjoy it while standing next to Eliza, who spends the whole time grinning smugly. The two of them share the occasional snide remark about how flutes and piccolos are small and lightweight and easy to carry, unlike certain other things.

But soon enough, Drum Major George Washington is rounding everyone up and herding them onto the bus, giving the occasional disappointed frown at the antics of immature high school marching band members. Everyone falls into the seats they've always taken--color guard up front, then flutes, then Alex's weird friend group amalgamation of instruments, then the rest of the instrumentalists, then drum line, and finally, at the very back, guarding their seats like a dragon does gold, the cheerleaders.

John goes to sleep on Alex's shoulder about five minutes into the drive. Gilbert, leaning over from the seat across the aisle, laughs quietly, leans down, and unlaces John's shoes.

Alex watches this all with a sense of bemusement until Gilbert sits back up, shoelaces in hand, and proceeds to very carefully fit them into one of John's pockets. Then it all comes rushing back to him--last year, in the balcony, messing with a uniform--trying not to giggle as TJ wondered nearly hysterically where his shoelaces had disappeared to--the great and powerful knowledge that the laces were in the inner pocket of the very pair of band uniform pants that TJ was wearing. 

He almost stuffs his whole fist in his mouth in an attempt to keep his laughter from waking John.

It doesn't work.

Three minutes later, the shoelaces have been restored to their rightful places, the laughter has subsided, and George's despairing glances have died back down to their usual levels. Alex is grinning, Gilbert is still giggling quietly to himself, Hercules is rewatching the video he'd taken of it, and John is pretending to be pissed off.

"Well," Eliza says, leaning over the seat back in front of them, "I guess you don't actually get to sleep on the bus."

"It's a travesty," John nods solemnly.

"Hey, you're just so amazing that we want you to be awake the whole time you're around us so we get to experience maximum awesomeness," Alex interjects. 

"If I'm that awesome, is everything I do awesome as well?"

"Well... most of it..."

"What about this?" John lunges and pins Alex against the side of the bus, tickling him mercilessly. 

Alex shrieks. "No, stop, no! Get off, haha, please, stop it, you--"

"Hamilton! Laurens!" Mr. Brian calls out. "Be a little quieter, please!"

They break apart and mutter contrite replies, ignoring the snickers coming from the direction of drum line and avoiding George's disapproving looks. Gilbert takes the opportunity of their distraction to hop over the aisle and squeeze into their seat.

"This is nice and cozy," he says, winking at them. "I wonder if the roommate arrangements will be like this." He leans against John and lays a hand on Alex's thigh.

"Oh god, they better not be," Eliza interjects. "We need you guys to actually get some sleep at night."

John mock-frowns. "And unfortunately you will be in a different wing of the dorm, far away from the action."

Eliza shakes her head. "As much fun as it was watching you guys that one night, I don't really have an interest in a repeat performance right now." She hesitates. "Maybe later--in fact, yes, later--but not at camp, not now."

She probably says some things after that, but Alex's brain has been sidetracked by the memory of that night. It had been during the end of the year band trip, and he's pretty sure he doesn't remember it exactly right, but what he does remember is amazing. Beautiful. Golden. Hands skirting all over his skin, lightning inside and out--tangling his hands in long blond hair that smelled of a far off land--biting, desperate kisses that swallowed sweet epithets whispered with a South Carolina tang--sucking hard on Gilbert's neck and grinning victoriously as the other boy lost it, rutting erratically into his hands--Eliza's soft, steady voice shaking with simple, overwhelming instructions for them and the sounds of her own enjoyment--not knowing what words were flying from him as those hands ( _oh god those hands_ ) kept up their teasing work--moans that hung in the steamy air and then vanished as Eliza finally approached the bed and leaned down to kiss him--fingers twining in his hair, adding sparks to the growing heat--clutching at John's back and melting around him--coming undone with those hands clutching his hip so hard it left bruises (all of their hands, all three beautiful, dexterous, unique hands)--the whole room being lit with a warm hue, lazy and comfortable as they lay there in peace for a few moments before Eliza reminded them that she had to sneak back to her own room now.

Fuck. 

He may have whimpered a little thinking of it.

This is not a good time.

Double-fuck.

It really doesn't help that the warmth of John is plastered all against his left side, or that Gilbert's hand is still resting on his thigh (not high enough to be totally inappropriate, but high enough for it to get to Alex), or that Eliza's still leaning over the back of the seat in front of him, almost close enough to kiss, or--

No. He is stopping this right there. He has morals, and they do not include 'sporting a semi on the band bus'. 

Triple-fuck. They're all staring at him. "Hey, you okay there, Hammy?" John asks.

Shit. They're pulling the Hammy card. They only do that when they're genuinely concerned or really want to make fun of him.

"Yeah, I'm great," he replies, grinning and shifting his hands to hide his crotch from view. He doesn't really think anything's happened down there yet, but better safe than sorry, right? "Yeah, sorry, you mentioned that night and I got a little distracted."

They give him entirely unnecessary understanding smirks. "You're so fucking horny, you know that?" Gilbert says.

"Like you have any room to speak."

"True, true. None of us really do."

"We're teenagers."

 

***

 

About half an hour later, the bus has passed beyond even the most persistent exurbs and is travelling along what could possibly be called a highway in the sense that it is fast, continuous, and devoid of traffic. It is also strangely devoid of cars, which in Alex's opinion are part of what makes a highway a highway. Outside, there are plenty of trees, periodical railroads, the occasional farm, and lots of low-hanging morning fog that makes it hard to see said trees, farms, and railroads. 

Alex doesn't think he'll ever get used to summer mornings in this part of the world. It's all so pretty and calm and cool, unlike the summers he remembers from his younger childhood. Those summers were oppressive--heat so hot people could barely stand, air so humid taking a breath was almost like taking a drink, wind so still it felt like nothing had ever moved or was ever going to move again, and the whole world had just ceased to turn and would stay there until everything melted and sank down into a puddle of miscellaneous matter floating in a vacuum of heat.

The window in the row in front of him is open, and he sighs contentedly as the crisp air hits his face. This is ideal weather, he thinks--not so hot that he wants to die, not so cold that he's scared he actually might.

He leans more against John's side and begins thinking of how he would describe it in a letter to his brother. It's an old mental exercise for him, useful for getting his thoughts in order, and sometimes they result in actual emails for him to send. James is still working at the mine he managed to get a job at two years ago, doing dangerous work thousands of feet underground, and Alex knows that the snippets of his own life he can send to his brother do help.

Sometimes he feels guilty about the differences between them, how he's living relatively comfortably (even if it's mostly off John's charity, and before that there was a period where he was...  well, homeless and eating only school-provided meals and food from soup kitchens) while James is doing hard labor and working for everything he has. No, strike the sometimes, the guilt is pretty much constant, as is the insecurity. He still unconsciously catalogues possible sleeping spots when he's out walking around, he looks over his shoulder entirely too much and holds his keys like a weapon, and he would be lying if he said he didn't have a stash of non-perishables hidden in the apartment. But it's not necessary anymore.

He doesn't know if it's necessary for James. If it ever was. They didn't--don't--talk about stuff like that.

There's plenty of stuff they don't talk about.

Alex isn't exactly sure how long it takes him to construct the mental letter--when he's writing, time is abstract and has no more meaning than a toddler's gibberish--before Gilbert is leaning over to tap something on his arm and John is nudging him with an elbow. He looks up to see them pointing out the window, and then gets really excited and almost freaks out because the bus is now navigating the streets of a small college town.

He peers out the window, even though the fog is now mostly gone, and laughs delightedly as the familiar red brick dorms come into view. They're still there, solid, squat, small, just as he remembers them.

The buses swing into the parking lot for the northernmost dorm, mostly devoid of cars, and groan as they come to a halt. The doors open with the screech of tired metal overworked by rain, and a brisk breath of air comes rushing in. The band kids rise as one and then almost stampede of the bus, pausing only to fling quick "Thank you!"s for the drivers to catch.

The first day of band camp has begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When you've been sleeping in all summer, it can be hard to get up for a 7:30 bus. I empathize with Laurens.
> 
> However, when you've been staying up to write and sleeping at irregular hours and basically fucking over your circadean rhythm all summer, it may be easy to wake up for the first day of band camp, but the second day will be very hard indeed. You brought this upon yourself, Hammy.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on tumblr, I'm mirthandmoney. Give me a prompt and I might write you some fic. Give me a fandom and I might write you a marching band AU.


End file.
